Page 138 of One More Truth
* * *
There must besomething to dramatically changing your hair after a breakup. As soon as I sit in my garden and open my laptop, the words begin to flow.
Just not the words I had originally intended.
No, instead of working on Angelique’s story, I write an article. “Confessions of an Abused Wife.”
My experience as an abused wife and the things Robyn and I discussed during some of our sessions are stirred into the words. The trauma bond, the repeated cycle of abuse, the feelings of unworthiness, the positive reinforcement, the fixation on the “good” days, and the role dopamine plays in trauma bonding—it’s all added.
All the things I’ve never said to the people who’ve questioned why I didn’t walk away like they think they would have been able to, all those words are liberally mixed into the article.
And then I type all the other ideas I have for articles based on the past ten or so years. Articles that give voice to all the hurts I’ve been forced to endure. The pain, the prejudices, the hate.
Articles that unfortunately too many people can relate to. Articles that are raw and eye-opening.
I have no clue what I’ll do with them. For now, they’re only for me. Part of my therapy. Like journaling. But now that I’ve gotten those words down, I’m ready to return to Angelique’s story.
I hit Save on the article and pick up the last of Angelique’s journals I still need to read and transcribe. I flip through the pages to see how much farther I have left to go. My page-flipping takes me to the empty pages about a quarter way through, an envelope I didn’t know was there marking the spot. A bookmark?
The name Elizabeth is written on the front in faded blue ink, the handwriting the same as in the journals.
I turn the envelope over. It’s sealed.
I put it to the side on the table and get to work transcribing the last journal. It could be that whatever is in the envelope is meant to be read after reading the journals.
* * *
“Wow!”
I startle at Avery’s voice. She’s standing at the wooden garden gate, her eyes wide, lips parted in surprise.
The angle of the sun tells me it’s already late afternoon. I’ve been writing nonstop since I came out here several hours ago.
“I love the new hairstyle and color.” Avery unlatches the gate and enters the garden. “It looks amazing on you.”
“Thanks. It’s my fresh start.” I play with the ends near my face. I’m still getting used to the length being considerably shorter than it’s been in over a decade. “Can I ask you a question about your mother?”
Not seeming at all shocked at my question, Avery sits on the wrought-iron chair opposite me, her loose red curls gleaming softly in the sunlight. “Sure. Ask away.” She bends down and pets Bailey, who is currently not wearing herService Dog in Trainingvest.
“How long did it take until she felt like she’d reclaimed her life after leaving your father?”
“A while. But everyone’s journey is different. You can’t measure your progress compared to anyone but yourself.” She straightens, her gaze studying me for a heartbeat. “Is there any reason you’re asking me this?”
I dig my teeth into my lower lip. Might as well tell her the truth now. Everyone will hear about it soon enough. “I broke up with Troy.”
If I thought her eyes went wide when she saw my haircut, that’s nothing compared to now. “You did?”
I nod, shame washing over me at how it all went down. I didn’t mean to hurt him, but I also didn’t mean for my past to hurt his company either. He deserves better than me, better than the disruption my life has caused him.
“I couldn’t give him what he wanted.”
“And what’s that?”
“Troy will make a wonderful father one day,” I reply, not directly answering her question. “And Nova deserves a father like that.”
Like Amelia deserved a wonderful father and eventually got one.
A spark of understanding shifts in Avery’s eyes. “From what Simone told me, Troy and Olivia have been best friends since they were kids.”
